


Boo Who?

by sgam76



Series: A Sharp, Dressed Man 'verse [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Costume Party, Don't mess with Mummy, Drunk Sherlock (sort of), Fae Mummy, Fae Mycroft, Fae Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Lost a Bet, Since my fluff requires vampires, Suggested by a reader comment, fae, halloween fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26918158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: Sherlock lost a bet--with his mother. Which means he has to do whatever she says. It won't be illegal, or painful, or permanent--but Sherlock is NOT going to enjoy it.Everyone else will, though.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: A Sharp, Dressed Man 'verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/885627
Comments: 47
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> OK, as promised, here's my short thing for Halloween in the Sharp, Dressed Man 'verse. This was originally "requested" in a note from an earlier story--I can't find it now, but if you recognize yourself, you're welcome ;)
> 
> This is only two chapters, so it will be completed pretty quickly.

So the way Greg heard the story first, Sherlock had lost a bet. What he _hadn’t_ heard was the fact that the bet was _with his mother_ , which added another layer of joy to the whole thing. John giggled the whole time he was relaying the facts over the phone.

“He’s in his room,” John said with a smirk when Greg arrived at Baker Street later that afternoon. “Don’t expect to see him out today—he’s still licking his wounds.”

“ _No I’m not!”_ came a sulky shout from behind the bedroom door.

John sighed and waved Greg to the couch before heading in to make tea. “So, did Mycroft tell you the plan?” he asked, as he came back in with a plate of Mrs. H’s shortbread. “I mean, the party and all?”

“Charity do for Great Ormond Street Hospital, right? With some of the kids possibly in attendance?” Greg replied. “I’ve done security for it the past couple of years.”

John nodded. “Yeah, and this year Mellie’s the event chairwoman. It’s Halloween evening, so even though she privately considers it an ‘American excuse for overeating and ridiculous behaviour’, she’s going with the flow. Figures the kids, at least, will enjoy it.” He took a contemplative bite of shortbread before continuing. “It’s being held at Mycroft’s, because the townhouse has a ballroom. Takes up the entire second floor. The place has a lift and everything.” He rolled his eyes.

“Well, that bit’s not exactly his fault,” Greg said. “Family property and all. He told me once what a headache it was to maintain.”

John nodded. “Mellie said the same. But she loves the old place, I think. And she wants to ‘breathe a little life back into it’, hence offering it for the party. So I’m assuming you’re part of the security detail again?”

“In tandem with some of Mycroft’s spooks,” Greg said wryly. “Have to work around his existing security setup, y’know?” He reached for another piece of shortbread. “The thing that’s giving them heartburn is the fact that it’s a costume ball. Hard to get firm ID on folks when they’re wearing masks and wigs.”

“Oh, yeah,” John said, beginning to chuckle again. “But that’s my favourite part, actually. Guess what Sherlock has to go as?”

Greg’s face lit up. “Nooooo,” he said, in scandalized tones.

John nodded. “Yup. Full vampire stereotype. Long black opera cape—Mycroft owns one, so that’s easy—tuxedo, slicked-back hair, white makeup—not that he needs much of that.” He chuckled again, trying not to full-out laugh, trying to get to the punchline. “BUT—and it’s my very favourite bit—he must _publicly_ say. At least once.” He fell into chortling gasps, “I VANT TO SUCK YOUR BLOOOOOOD!” as he and Greg fell into each other, howling with laughter.

“ _Shut UP!”_ Sherlock wailed from his bedroom.

As John heard the story (from Mycroft, rendered chatty through pure brotherly schadenfreude), Sherlock had made the mistake of matching both wits and willpower with his mother.

It went like this: the brothers had decided, after the recent set-to with their loathsome Uncle Rudy*, that pursuing more education in magic would probably be wise. Defensive magic first—it was easier to learn, according to their mother, and served as a necessary base for the offensive work they would learn thereafter.

Mycroft, because he was older and stronger, was able to advance to the offensive aspect more quickly than his little brother. That’s where the trouble started, predictably enough.

Sherlock hated anything he wasn’t immediately good at—superior, even. And magic, _fae_ magic, required training, strength and, most of all, _patience_ —the patience to fail, over and over, in the process of learning.

Sherlock _despised_ failure. That was often a positive—it had driven him to become a superlative researcher, an exceptional linguist, and any number of other learned attributes. The difference was, though, that none of those pursuits had the potential to hurt people if he failed.

Especially himself.

They had started working every weekend at the house in Surrey—Mellie Holmes had insisted on that. “We need the space around us,” she said. “I don’t want a misplaced cast blowing up half of Kensington, thank you.” Which John found a little alarming when he heard it. Just a bit.

Sherlock had whined relentlessly about having to trek out to the Holmes manse for these sessions. “Mummy, you could _easily_ ward the whole townhouse, and we could work upstairs,” he said.

Mellie gave him a stern look. “And spend the next two days prostrate with migraine? I think not,” she said tartly, and that was the end of that.

Mycroft had told John in the past that Sherlock had been somewhat, well, _spoilt_ as a child, in part due to his fragility in his early years. “Indulged” was the word Mycroft had used, but John knew exactly what he meant; John often saw the legacy of that treatment, after all. And he could certainly read it into the rest of this story, as Mycroft continued.

They had been working for four weeks now. Mellie had laid out a lesson plan specific to each of her children. Mycroft, because of his more advanced skills, moved swiftly through the more-generic spellwork and straight on to the truly lethal things. His workings were economical—just the amount of effort needed, and no more. (Sherlock, in conversation with John, referred to it as “finicky”).

Sherlock, on the other hand, would work through his own relatively harmless spells, then crowd over Mellie’s shoulder to look at his brother’s. It was only a matter of time before he moved on to trying them out—without supervision, until Mellie realized what he was doing and put a stop to it.

“You’ll _immolate_ yourself, child!” she cried, after a particularly volatile spell went awry, forcing Mellie to magically recreate the pergola in the back garden. “If you continue in this vein, I’ll Constrain you. See if I don’t!”

And she could. Sherlock and Mycroft both knew it. Sherlock had once been Constrained—forcefully bound, essentially--from all magic for an entire summer, after an ill-fated experiment at 15 with workings he found in a book he illicitly “borrowed” from Uncle Rudy’s library. His argument that no one actually _used_ the barn held no weight with his mother.

After a lengthy argument (punctuated by Mycroft making statements designed to set his brother off, no doubt), an agreement was reached. Sherlock would get exactly three attempts at the last spell he’d attempted (none of the others—Mellie’s patience would only extend so far), under close, hands-on supervision. Mellie reserved the right to call a halt at any moment. Sherlock, after any further negotiation was stone-walled, reluctantly agreed.

They all adjourned to the front garden—more open space seemed advisable, after the misadventure with the pergola. And there were fewer flammable objects out there.

Mycroft had obligingly set up the target—a set of old clothes, stuffed with hay and topped with an old hat—and moved carefully out of the way. Standing beside—well, _behind_ , actually—his mother seemed a wise idea. Just in case.

Mellie stepped over to Sherlock and situated him carefully in front of the target, at a distance of perhaps 30 feet. “All right, dear. Attempt one of three. Go!”

Sherlock raised his right arm, gave a theatrical flourish, and shoved his curled hand sharply towards the target. Behind them, there was a sharp _crack_ as a long stone trough filled with plantings broke explosively into five pieces, scattering dirt and plant bits across a wide area. Including Sherlock and Mellie.

Mellie gave a tight smile, waved her hand to remove the debris from herself (but not her son), and moved him back into place. “Attempt two,” she said. “ _Focus_ , dear. Less hand motion, more explicit direction.”

Sherlock gave a tense nod and set his jaw firmly. He stared at the target, raised his arm carefully, and flexed his wrist sharply. Across the lawn a large tree, likely several hundred years old, split abruptly in half. One huge branch flattened half of Mellie’s rose garden. Mycroft gave a crack of laughter that died immediately when he caught his mother’s baleful eye.

That lady stood silently for a moment, then reached out, spoke a Word, and the great branch lifted up, the bushes correcting themselves in its wake. “The tree’s a loss. It would take too much energy to try to repair it,” she said. “We’ll have to see if a tree surgeon can save what’s left.” She glared at Sherlock. “Which _you_ will be paying for.”

Sherlock bobbed his head, not daring to speak.

Mellie gave a smirking Mycroft an additional glare, then settled in front of her youngest again. “Now then,” she said, words snipped off into short little bits. “Last chance, thank God. Once again: precise focus. Use a Word, if you like—it may help, though be very cautious in which you employ. Go!”

She stepped out of the line of fire. Sherlock, shoulders raised tensely up towards his ears, raised his arm shakily and pointed directly at the target. He extended his index finger in mimicry of a child with a “gun” and pulled the trigger, figuratively speaking. With a great _whoosh_ a hole, six feet in diameter and at least ten feet in depth, opened up in the pristine lawn behind the target. There was a brief breathless pause—then another great branch fell off the remains of the tree and dropped into the hole.

The three stood in appalled silence momentarily, before Mellie moved over silently to convince the branch to relocate to the side of the garden, and filled the hole. Only when that operation was complete did she speak to Sherlock, still frozen in place. Her hair had started to lift in an invisible breeze slightly. “Now, child, are you finally convinced that your mother knows what you are and are not ready for?”

Even now, though, he wasn’t prepared to let it go. (In hearing the story, John expressed his absolute lack of surprise at that revelation). “Give me one more chance, Mummy,” the detective pleaded. “I know what’s wrong now, I’m sure of it. Absolutely positive. But we’ll never know if I’m right if you don’t let me try.” He gave her a full-frontal assault of Puppy Eyes (while Mycroft rolled his).

There was a long, fraught silence. Then Mellie sighed and shook her head. “This is a bad idea,” she said. “I know it. We _all_ know it. But here we are.” She moved forward and set her hands firmly on her youngest’s shoulders. “All right. I will make you a wager, a binding one. I wager that you can’t do this successfully. In the staggeringly unlikely event that you succeed, we will allow you to advance your training at your brother’s pace, within reason. BUT—if you fail— _and you will_ , my son—you agree to do whatever I ask. It will be neither painful, permanent nor illegal, but you will not like it. So, on those terms, are we agreed?” There was a sense of listening in the air, a confirmation of potential for something.

Sherlock looked his mother right in the eye and nodded. “Agreed,” he said, and the air chimed softly like a bell. The pact was made.

This time Mellie backed well away, moving over to stand by Mycroft, hands propped firmly on her hips. Sherlock licked his lips nervously and squared up to his target. He then closed his eyes, held his right hand, palm open, out towards the target. Then he very, very softly spoke a Word.

And behind him, on the circular drive, there was a _FWOOMP_ sound as Siger’s Range Rover burst into flames.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the party finally arrives. John is excited, Greg is content, and Sherlock is, predictably enough, miserable.
> 
> But Mummy is having an excellent time.

“So that was the end of it,” John told Greg, who was still chortling with glee. “We’re both going—I’m to be a hobbit, apparently, which is a little insulting but bearable. But it’s an expensive outfit, so at least it won’t look like something made for a primary school kid. I’ll even have foot prostheses and a human hair wig.” He looked over at Greg. “So what are you wearing? Since I know you won’t be let off the hook, even if you are technically the ‘help’?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Sam Spade, from the old Humphrey Bogart movie,” he said wryly. “Fits with Mycroft’s sense of humour, so I’m assuming it was his idea. He really likes those old _noir_ things.”

John raised his brows. “Do you know who he’s going as, then? Mellie was very coy about her own costume, certainly. Siger’s going the easy route—he’s a monk.”

Greg shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I do know he’s had it bespoke, and it’s taking a while. Mellie’s too, I gather.”

John took the last biscuit. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m actually starting to look forward to this thing. Even wearing prosthetic feet.”

Greg nodded. “It’s usually nice,” he said. “Really great food, relatively few ‘society’ types for this kind of thing. And the kids get a giggle out of it. I brought my stepson, year before last. He loved it.” He dropped his chin and raised his voice a bit, an evil look in his eyes. “ _And I’m sure Sherlock will too!”_

“Fuck _OFF_ ,” howled the bedroom door.

During the week leading up to the festivities, Sherlock progressed from Angry Toddler to Sniping Teenager to what looked an awful lot like Despairing Victorian Prisoner. (John had only seen the latter a couple of times, so it was difficult to be sure. It was Greg’s scale, after all). The quieter Sherlock got, though, the less enjoyment John took in his predicament, even if the detective had brought it on himself.

Greg had fewer qualms, and made a point of asking “innocent” questions about the party at every opportunity, just to watch the faces Sherlock made as a result. It made for a less-than-ideal environment on crime scenes, but that was nothing new.

The day of the party they all converged at Mycroft’s home not long after lunch, since their costumes had been delivered there. John and Sherlock shared a cab; Sherlock was silent the entire trip, staring morosely out the window as the taxi wended its way through increasingly posh streets and neighbourhoods.

When they pulled up to the ornate front entrance of the Holmes townhouse, Sherlock hopped out and stalked inside, leaving John, as usual, to pay the fare. By the time he got inside John was feeling rather less sympathetic than he had when the journey started, especially when he realized Sherlock hadn’t waited for him and had just shut the enormous door, leaving John to knock for admittance.

Mellie opened the door, a look of exasperation on her face. “That boy!” she exclaimed. “I could just tear my hair out.” She thought a moment. “Or his.” She leaned forward for John to kiss the offered cheek.

“He’s been in a bit of a Mood the past few days,” John said, feeling oddly as if he should give some excuse for Sherlock’s rudeness.

“I’m sure,” Mellie said, sounding more resigned than irritated now. “I know parties are not his favourite activity. And I regret, now, using a true wager. He’s likely to be quite uncomfortable until he’s done his required tasks. I let my temper get the better of me. Again.” She gave a rueful smile.

John wasn’t sure what his face did at that, but it must have conveyed his confusion reasonably well, as Mellie huffed and waved one hand. “Oh, I didn’t realize you hadn’t understood,” she said. “I’m sure you remember the binding we put on my brother—Sherlock explained that the magic ensured his compliance, yes?”

John nodded, still perplexed.

“Well, this is much the same,” Mellie continued, as they started up the front stairs. “In agreeing to the wager, Sherlock was binding himself. He _must_ complete his end of the bargain. And the magic is quite firm—he will feel increasingly uncomfortable, the closer we get to the end of the party. Not doing his part wouldn’t _kill_ him, of course, but it would likely make him very ill for a few days.” She looked rather uncomfortable, and John could see why. A little beyond “Tough Love”, that was.

“Um,” John said, feeling like an idiot. “I, erm, I suppose I could try to help him along? Act as backup, so to speak?”

“Oh, could you?” Mellie said, clasping her hands together happily. “He doesn’t do well in large groups—you know that. But perhaps you could stay close and run interference? I’d do it, but he fusses if I do.” And John could just see that. It brought a reluctant grin to his face.

John was surprised to see he’d been awarded his own room—he’d half-expected to be sharing with Sherlock, who had his childhood suite here. Before John investigated his own, then, he wandered down the hall in search of his friend.

The third door down was open, with Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap. He looked young and unhappy.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, coming over to sit beside him. “It’s not that bad, surely. Just a few hours in costume and you’re done. And I can help fend off anyone you really want to avoid.” He’d done it before, after all. Sherlock tended to attract some fans who were more impressed with his appearance than his mind and didn’t want to take “no” for an answer; it wouldn’t be the first time John had acted as an impromptu bodyguard.

“My mother will be upset if I don’t do the party ‘properly’, and that will violate the spirit of the wager,” Sherlock said. “Can’t stay in corners; can’t hide in the loo; can’t leave early. She has a _list_.” His shoulders crept up towards his ears. “I’m already feeling mildly ill, though I’m unsure if that’s the wager, or just the prospect of the evening to come.”

And in his expression John could see the echo of Sherlock’s childhood and teens—years in which Sherlock was always the outsider, the odd one, the one, John feared, who had been laughed at and teased relentlessly. No wonder he hated parties.

“How about I go talk to your mum, and see if she’ll release you from the wager?” John said. After his conversation with her earlier he was pretty sure she’d go for it, especially if he told her how her son was feeling at present, and why.

Sherlock shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “The wager binds _both_ of us. Once enacted, it can’t be undone.” He gave John a wry grin. “I assume she is feeling somewhat guilty now?”

John grinned in return. “Yeah, she is,” he said. “Maybe that’s ammunition for next time, huh?” Because there would be one. He knew both of them now well enough to be sure of it.

They spent time unpacking their overnight bags and having a light snack before it was finally time to get their costumes on for final fittings. John found his fit well right out of the carrier bag, and was surprisingly comfortable.

“These feet are cushioned on the inside. They’re like expensive slippers,” he told Sherlock, who watched with an amused smirk. “The wig’s a bit straggly, but at least it’s real hair.” He turned back and forth to admire himself in the full-length mirror on Sherlock’s back wall.

Sherlock’s costume needed no fittings either, for the plain and simple reason that the bulk of it was his own clothing. He was wearing his better tuxedo—the tailed one he kept for the opera or the rare ultra-formal functions he had to attend with Mycroft. Topping that would be Mycroft’s dramatic opera cape, fine black silk lined with blood red. Mellie had made John promise to get a picture before they all headed downstairs, since she knew how adept her son would be at avoiding cameras once they reached the party.

Mycroft and Mellie had spirited themselves away to their rooms at the far end of the corridor, taking a seamstress and two tailors with them. It was very quiet down there; John wasn’t sure if that was a bad sign or a good one.

The afternoon passed quickly; Greg Lestrade showed up at just before 6 with a suit bag in hand, settling into the room next to John and hopping in the shower before changing into his costume. “You don’t want to know what I have on my trouser legs,” he said simply. 

Finally, at half-six, it was time to change. John made quick work of it, re-donning the fake feet, the tunic, the longish wig, before walking down to Sherlock’s room. The detective was already clad in his tuxedo, and his hair had been slicked back with oil, so shiny it looked wet. It was curious how different he looked that way—much more “adult”, somehow.

As Sherlock saw John, he looked up and held out a bottle. “Can you put the makeup on?” he asked. “I don’t want to risk getting it on my suit.”

John obliged, taking the white stage makeup and the tiny applicator sponge and chivvying Sherlock in to take a seat on the toilet. “So I can reach you properly, and we have water if we need it.” Sherlock went obediently enough, though he was still subdued. John wrapped a towel carefully around his shoulders, tucking it into the currently open collar before starting to dab away.

They fell into a contemplative silence for the most part, punctuated only by John’s occasional instructions for movement. He chuckled internally at the fact that the makeup really didn’t make all that substantial a difference in Sherlock’s appearance—he was already so pale, this was just a few shades lighter.

Sometime during the process Sherlock had closed his eyes; he looked tired and likely was, since he’d clearly been dreading tonight for weeks. John sighed and put down his sponge. “Do we need to do your hands as well?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his shiny head. “No, I have my white gloves,” he said, pulling them out of his inside breast pocket and tugging them on. Then he picked up Mycroft’s beautiful cape from the bed and swept it dashingly across his shoulders.

John nodded. “All right, teeth,” he said. “Want to see the full effect.”

Sherlock sighed, opened his mouth and slotted his secondary teeth into place. His eyes flashed phosphorescent green momentarily before he flinched and dropped his gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No problem,” John said soothingly. That brief lack of control on Sherlock’s part was probably an indicator of his internal upset—the last thing John wanted to do was make an issue of it, no matter how socially inappropriate vampires thought it was.

John reached over to pick up his phone. “Pose for me,” he commanded, as Sherlock drew himself up and sneered. “Your mum wants a picture.” He looked at Sherlock’s belligerent stare. “I’m assuming that’s part of her list,” he said innocently.

The detective deflated instantly. “Take it,” he said morosely.

“Not with you looking like I stole your last biscuit,” John said. “I won’t ask for a smile. But maybe less, I dunno, doomed?”

Sherlock heaved a gusty sigh, raised his chin and shoulders, and posed like Heathcliff looking across the moors. “Good enough,” John said, and snapped the photo.

They went up the stairs to the second floor, listening to the sound of many chattering voices and orchestral music filtering down. John was happy to see Greg waiting at the top, attired in a finely-cut trench coat, ‘40s-style suit and a noir-esque hat pulled over one eye. His face lit up as he saw them.

“About time,” he said with a smile. “Didn’t want to make an entrance on my own, ya know.” He looked Sherlock up and down. “Snappy look there, lad.” He raised one eyebrow. “Just a little on the nose, though, innit?” he chortled.

Sherlock made a rude gesture with one elegantly gloved hand. “Speak to my mother about that,” he said.

Greg slapped a theatrical hand to his chest. “Cheek!” he gasped, not trying to hide his grin. Shaking it off, he looked back down the stairs. “Where’s your brother? And your parents?”

“It’s not currently included in my list of tasks to keep track,” Sherlock sniffed, and moved towards the ballroom. Behind them, though, they suddenly heard Mellie’s voice.

“Wait a second, dear, we’re almost there,” she called, as she, Siger and Mycroft reached the bottom of the steps. John turned to see what was causing Greg’s shocked (awed?) face.

Awed. Definitely awed. Because below them stood a fully tonsured Benedictine monk and two figures out of a Renaissance painting.

Mellie was wrapped in an elaborate gown of mint-green brocade, corseted and heavily embroidered, with a creamy white ruff for a collar. Her hair (well, wig) was tucked up under a richly decorated headpiece. Beside her stood Mycroft, in a rust-brown velvet tunic with jet embellishments, with “slashed” sleeves that showed glimpses of the fine linen undershirt. Below he wore short breeches, complete with codpiece, and black leggings. His face bore a red-gold tightly trimmed mustache and beard. He looked like he’d stepped out of Elizabeth’s court—the _first_ Elizabeth.

“You copied the paintings,” Sherlock said, in a tone that couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or disapproving. And he was right—John realized he’d seen Mycroft’s outfit before, in one of the portraits in the gallery downstairs. He’d noticed the strong resemblance at the time.

Mycroft ran a pale hand down the tunic, looking smugger than usual. “Mummy’s idea,” he said. “But I do admit, I think it suits well.” He preened a bit. Siger smirked behind him and rolled his eyes.

Mellie gave a little huff and poked him in the back. “Yes, yes,” she said, “you can admire yourself in the photos later. For now, let’s get going—I don’t want all the salmon to be gone by the time we get there.” She looked up at her younger son. “Sherlock. Are you going to behave yourself, my heart?”

Sherlock gave a jerky little nod. “Of course, Mummy,” he said stiffly. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

“No, you don’t,” his mother said happily.

The party was like something out of a fantasy film. Clearly the Holmeses had gone all-out on the decorations—flowers everywhere, special lighting effects, a top-notch chamber orchestra in one corner—and the enormous room was full of happy people in elaborate and expensive costumes.

Sherlock moved off to do his duty—his mother had given him a list of those he was expected to at least say hello to, and several whom he was to ask to dance. John stayed close as he’d promised, grabbing a loaded plate from the sumptuous buffet and moving around the edges of the room as needed. He saw all four Holmeses swirling around the floor at various points, while Greg circulated in a more professional fashion, combining enjoyment with keeping an eye on the security staff.

In one corner was a special area set up for children, some from the hospital, some not. There were huge soft cushions for reclining, a special buffet of simpler foods, and two nurses keeping a weather eye on their charges. Every time John passed them, he saw smiles all ‘round, with kids pointing at the dancers and clapping their hands to the music.

This was the best party he’d ever been to.

As the evening wore on Sherlock started to frown. Briefly at first, then pretty much continuously, as the divot between his brows deepened. John, coming off a brisk dance of his own, saw him across the floor and frowned as well. He thanked his partner and walked over to his friend.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, as Sherlock grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server and basically inhaled it. John could see the detective think about arguing, and then change his mind.

“The wager,” Sherlock sighed, putting the empty glass down on a side table. “It…I haven’t completed the last part of my tasks yet, and it’s getting late. It’s _pushing_.” He looked miserable.

John looked around the floor helplessly. He knew how much Sherlock would hate making a spectacle of himself, even if he did sort of deserve it.

It suddenly came to him. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and started tugging him across the busy dance floor. “Come on,” he said firmly. “I have an idea.”

John spoke to the nurses first, while Sherlock hovered gloomily in the background. Several of the children eyed him curiously, and he slowly opened his mouth and showed his teeth, to a collective “oooooh” from his audience. He gave a tiny, hesitant grin before sobering once more.

John, permission granted, walked over and knelt in the midst of the group of children. He noticed two of the event photographers moving into position and grinned—that was perfect timing. “Do you all know what a vampire says?” he asked, and 15 small heads bobbed. “Do you think you can help him say it?” He looked over his shoulder and jerked his head at Sherlock, motioning him closer. “He’s a bit shy,” John said confidingly. The heads bobbed again. And so it was that Sherlock Holmes clutched the edges of his cape and held it out wide, crimson lining flaring, and John counted down. “One, two, three…”

And Sherlock, plus 15 delighted children of assorted sizes, caroled out “I VANT TO SUCK YOUR BLOOOOOOD!” as cameras flashed all around.

By eleven the party was starting to wind down. The children had long since departed, laden down with treat bundles and party gifts. The crowd was thinning, the music slower. John looked up from releasing his dance partner to see Sherlock heading out of the room. He looked at his watch and decided to follow; it was late enough, and his feet hurt. He slid the padded prostheses off, tucked them under one arm and nipped out the door.

John didn’t catch up with Sherlock immediately—he’d lingered just a bit too long, and his friend was near-running down the stairs. That’s why he wasn’t at Sherlock’s side when an arm shot out of a small door on the lower landing and yanked him inside.

John stopped, gaped, then dropped his fake feet and thundered barefoot down the remaining stairs before the door, built invisibly into the wood paneling, could close completely. It opened onto a very steep set of worn stairs, heading down to what were probably servants’ quarters or kitchens. The walls were whitewashed stone, with bare lightbulbs strung along the ceiling. John could hear noises of a struggle ahead, around a turning in the corridor.

There was a sudden yelp of pain that had John running before he realized it, which turned out to be a mistake. Because, as he tore around that corner, John ran straight into the sights of a very large gun pointed between his eyes.

The man holding the gun was nondescript; neither short nor tall, young nor old, physically average in every way—something that screamed “spook” to John, and clearly not one of Mycroft’s. Behind him was a tall, fat man about John’s age, with a very large knife held firmly against Sherlock’s neck. A trickle of blood flowed from a small cut on that pale expanse.

“I see you decided to join us, Doctor,” the fat man said in a posh, plummy voice. “Come along. My lair is just down here.” He laughed as Sherlock rolled his eyes, and jerked him down the hall by one arm.

In short order Sherlock and John were hustled into a chamber at the end of the hall—old, _very_ old, with stone walls and floor and a minimum of furnishings. The nondescript man closed the heavy, thick wood door behind them and latched it, then pushed John to a stout wooden chair. “Sit,” he barked, and zip-tied John to the heavy chair, both arms and legs.

The fat man handled Sherlock, using the knife to move him over to a small table along the wall with a glass beaker on it. “Drink it,” he said. He gestured, and his aide swapped the gun for the knife, then moved to stand in front of the door.

“What makes you think I would do that?” Sherlock sneered. “I think you’ll find I’m considerably stronger than I look, and John can handle your flunky if need be, I’m sure.” Said flunky looked mildly offended but stayed in position.

“You either drink it, or I shoot him,” he said, moving over to hold the gun to John’s temple. “I’m not terribly bothered about that—spent three years in the army Special Forces right out of school. Dirty deeds, you might say.” He looked around the stone room. “And it’s not like anyone will hear—the beauty of dungeons. Couldn’t believe it, when I got a copy of the house plans from the architect’s office—my cousin, you know. How many places in Kensington are old enough to have _dungeons_ , I ask you?”

Sherlock had once told John that the dungeon had been his favourite place to play as a child. He hadn’t realized his friend meant it _literally_.

Sherlock sneered, and glared—and drank. He finished the cup with a cough and a gag, but the liquid, whatever it was, stayed down.

After a moment he looked up, a crease between his brows. “It’s…it has mistletoe in it, doesn’t it?”

John jerked with alarm. “That’s _poisonous_ ,” he said. “You’ll kill him!”

“Not _him_ ,” their captor sneered. “Not his sort.”

And that, right there, let John know this wasn’t simply a kidnapping, and that there was something else entirely at work. The question was, what? And where was Mycroft’s vaunted security?

Their assailant seemed to remember something, and looked over his shoulder at the silent man by the door. “Go stand outside,” he said, and the man slipped out without a word.

As John watched Sherlock grew increasingly disoriented, his eyes glazing over. He suddenly sat, or fell, into a chair next to the table. He also got quite chatty, which their captor seemed to find disconcerting. “This is remarkbl…remarbl…really stupid,” Sherlock lisped, his secondary teeth proving problematic. “You’re in our _home_. D’you think no one will _notice_?” He giggled, his head lurching to one side before jerking back up.

“Won’t matter,” the fat man said briskly, tugging at his collar and opening his shirt to the waist. It wasn’t an especially pleasant view. “Once the serum really kicks in, you’ll do whatever I ask you to do, and tell your family it was your idea. No fuss, no muss.”

Sherlock leaned closer, almost falling over before catching himself with an elbow. “Do I know you?” he asked, scrunching his nose and squinting his eyes to focus better.

“I doubt you remember me, but I know _you._ Well, knew you, anyway,” the man sneered. “Proper little savage, you were. I saw you when they brought you into the infirmary, with those bloody great teeth and claws out.” He snorted. “ _Bloody_.” He laughed again at his own wit, while John glared hate from across the room. “And I saw your victim too. Damn near killed him, you did, scrawny little thing though you were.”

Sherlock edged back upright, eyes wide. “You were at school,” he breathed. “When I. _Oh_.”*

The man laughed again, not a nice laugh. “Graham Whittle,” he said, bowing, “at your service. Five years ahead of you, I was, so I was old enough not to buy the nonsense story the school put out after you left. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name in the papers last year. I realized it was time to use what I knew. Took a long time to find an opportunity, though.”

“I’ve always wondered what they said,” Sherlock slurred, listing to the side again. “I mean, how do you explain away something like that?” he asked, waving out a spindly arm and almost launching himself inadvertently off the chair. He frowned. “I don’t feel well,” he said suddenly, and put his head down on his folded arms on the table.

Whittle frowned, reaching forward and grabbing Sherlock’s hair, while John tugged ineffectually at his tethers. “Why are you so, well, _drugged_?” he asked, using Sherlock’s hair to yank his head back and forth briskly. “It’s supposed to be a hypnotic, not a sedative. Supposed to make you _docile_.”

Sherlock abruptly leaned forward and vomited down their captor’s trouser leg. John nearly cheered. If nothing else it would get some of the dose out of his system.

“I really don’t feel well,” the detective moaned again, and Whittle backhanded him. John vaulted his chair forward, stopping when the gun barrel pressed back against his temple.

“Don’t be stupid, doctor,” Whittle snapped. “No one has to die here. Well, not permanently, anyway. Our friend here just has to bite me—take enough to turn me, however much that is—and everyone walks away. The serum will last long enough for him to tell everyone it was his choice. I won’t even press charges.” He smirked again, and pushed Sherlock’s chin up to look at his eyes.

Sherlock blinked. “Idiot,” he giggled. “Doesn’t work like that. Not supera, supra, um, _magic_ ; didn’t your source tell you?” He sounded rather judgmental.

“You’re a fucking vampire. You bite people, and if you take enough blood they turn,” Whittle snarled. “And you’re going to fucking bite _me_.” He shook Sherlock’s head viciously again, drawing another moan.

“No,” Sherlock hiccupped, and closed his eyes again. His breathing didn’t sound quite right.

“They’re not—it’s a subspecies!” John shouted. “They can’t ‘turn’ anybody. It’s not supernatural, they’re _born_ , just like you and me. He’s never voluntarily bitten anyone in his life.”

“Of course he has—I _saw_ it, remember? And I don’t believe you. My contact has extensive records; he’s been studying them for decades. He’s the one that told me about the mistletoe; he found it in a book from the Middle Ages,” Whittle shouted back. “He tested it himself, he told me.”

“Morons,” Sherlock muttered. “Flat Earthers. As if records from the Middle Ages are in any way reliable.” He managed to lift his head briefly before it dropped again. “If your cat bites you, do you grow whiskers and a tail?” He giggled again, then trailed off into another moan.

Whittle snarled, bending over to shove his bare throat toward Sherlock’s appalled face, and pointed his gun at John’s face. “Fuck this. Bite me right now, or I _will_ shoot him.” He pulled the trigger, and a shot went just past John’s ear, close enough that John felt the heat.

Sherlock, startlingly, laughed, his eyes suddenly trained over Whittle’s beefy shoulder. “No,” he said simply. “I won’t bite you. But _he_ might.” And the great wooden door behind them burst off its hinges and flew across the room.

In the end, the cleanup was relatively simple. Greg Lestrade had hovered outside as Mycroft burst in, picked Whittle up by the throat and bore him effortlessly off down the stone hallway, choking and kicking. After gaping after the bureaucrat momentarily, John woke from his stasis and called for Greg to cut him loose (which the detective did with one carefully extended claw. Such was John’s life now). Between the two of them they hauled Sherlock down the hall to the lift while he tottered like an inebriated flamingo, and from there to his room.

After a bit of thought John asked Greg to see if Mellie had a healer among her guests, rather than calling for an ambulance—anything to do with potions and vampire physiology was probably better handled by an expert. Five minutes later Mellie bustled in with a tall, spare man beside her, who moved quickly to treat his patient while said patient moaned and twitched.

By midnight Sherlock was tucked comfortably in bed and John, Mycroft and Greg had ensconced themselves in Mycroft’s downstairs study with a cheese plate and some very fine wine. John nibbled at a square of something that tasted faintly nutty and looked over at Mycroft. “So, Whittle taken care of?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said repressively, and took a sip of wine.

“Will I need to be debriefed or something?” John said, pretty sure he knew the answer.

Mycroft’s brows shot up. “Of course not,” he said, and that was the end of that.

Two days later a cold snap had swept through London, and John and Sherlock shivered as they ate their breakfast with blankets around their shoulders. “I told Mrs. Hudson that boiler wouldn’t last another year,” Sherlock sighed, and wrapped himself up tighter.

He was largely recovered from the apocalyptic hangover the “serum” had generated. Spent most of a day in bed but didn’t seem in any real danger, so John just kept force-feeding him bags of blood and cups of tea and waited it out. By the previous evening he’d been mostly fine but sulky (especially when he saw the photos from the ball in the newspaper, _most_ especially the ones of him).

Today, though, Sherlock was feeling fine, though chilly. And determined to do something about that last part. “Let’s start a fire,” he said, standing up from the table and marching into the sitting room. “The repair people won’t be here for _hours_.” 

“Yeah, OK,” John said, and moved towards the closet where they stored the kindling and fireplace lighter.

“Never mind that,” Sherlock said. “I can do it myself.” He reached behind his chair and pulled out a small straw doll, reaching in to place it on top of the logs already sitting on the grate.

John eyed both the doll and Sherlock with misgiving. “Isn’t this…wasn’t this how you, um. The wager?” he said, backing slowly away from the fireplace.

Sherlock sniffed. “I figured it out,” he said, backing over to stand by the sofa, then extending his right arm towards the fireplace. “It’ll be fine.” He pointed, then gave a quick, tiny flick of his fingers while breathing a Word. The little doll lit instantly, and the fire quickly spread to the waiting logs. The detective turned a smug smile towards John. “You see? I—”

And there was a sudden flurry of _FWOOMP_ sounds from the street below, as three parked cars burst into flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The events at Sherlock's school are detailed in The Doctor and the Semi-Dark Prince. John is still pretty cross about them, just so you know.

**Author's Note:**

> Great Ormond Street is a world-famous childrens' research hospital.
> 
> *See "All in the Family"


End file.
